


Absentee (He's Not Here)

by monsterfuckerdean (MushroomDoggo)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absent Parents, Bad Parent John Winchester, HBO SPN, Homophobic John Winchester, Kissing Under the Bleachers, M/M, Queer Themes, diner food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29231376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MushroomDoggo/pseuds/monsterfuckerdean
Summary: Based on a tumbler prompt: Parallels/metaphor/whatever of john winchester and god both as absentee fathers in hbo spn?Dean can't kiss a boy-- his father might be watching
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51
Collections: HBO Supernatural





	Absentee (He's Not Here)

"I can't," Dean hissed.

His hand was shaking. Why was his hand shaking? This was something he'd done a thousand times. He'd lost track of the number of girls he'd kissed.

And yet… his hand shook. His hand shook as it cradled the one which cupped against his cheek, and it only served to make this whole thing all the more intimate.

The boy sighed, and Dean could feel the weight of his breath. "I thought you liked me."

"I do!" Dean said, even as the hand slipped out from under his. "I do, I do, swear to God I do."

"I-it's okay," the boy said. His hand dropped back onto his knee. "Look, I-- I get it, man. You're a guy's guy, and I'm… I dunno."

"Hey." Dean but his hand on the boy's shoulder and gripped it firmly. Though this steadied his hand, he could suddenly feel the way the boy was quaking. "It's nothin' to do with you, okay? You're… I mean, you're…"

The boy's piercing eyes were fixed on Dean's face as he struggled to find the right words. The longer they alluded Dean, the deeper the boy's heart sank.

At last, Dean sighed. "You're fuckin' gorgeous, okay?" he said at last. "Look at you. Jesus."

The hint of a smile tugged at the boy's lips.

"And you got good taste in music, and you're smart," Dean continued. His list ended there, however.

The boy cleared his throat. "But…?"

Dean closed his eyes. The way a business man closes his eyes just before he fired a good, hardworking family man. "But…" he managed to say, fingers wandering across the hem of the boy's shirt, "as much as I want to… I can't."

The boy sat there a moment longer.

It was a strange sort of quiet here, under the bleachers.

It should have been just as loud as the rest of the football field. Yet, somehow, the sounds of the crickets were so much softer. The wind seemed to miss them entirely. Here, on an autumn night, these two boys may as well have been in their own world.

The boy brushed away Dean's hand. Like it was a mosquito. Like it was nothing. "Fine. I get it," he said, getting to his feet. "Really creative way to get out of kissing me. Dramatic. Shakespearean, even."

Dean pounded the ground with one fist, then leapt up after the boy. "God, Jesse, wait--"

Jesse. That's it. His name was Jesse.

"I'm done."

"Please, if you just let me explain, I--"

"You're not explaining!" Jesse whirled to face Dean. "You're not saying anything!"

Dean took a deep breath in, and he was surprised to find that his lungs seemed to be quivering, as well.

Jesse stared at Dean. His fists were clenched at his sides. The floodlights over the football field cast an otherworldly light over his dark and messy hair, like light from heaven itself.

It did not reach Dean where he stood, still under the bleachers, his hand just barely reaching out into its warmth.

"Well?" Jesse prompted.

"My dad," Dean blurted out.

Jesse raised an eyebrow. "You dad?"

Dean shook his head. "If he found out-- if he knew--"

"How could he?" Jesse asked.

Dean blinked. His heart was hammering against his ribcage.

"He's not watching, Dean," Jesse said, a hand raised to the sky.

Dean thought about that. He looked to the sky, as well, inexplicably feeling as if John Winchester might be peering down at him from the top of the bleachers.

And yet, despite that strange terror that John was watching, that he would somehow know, this was the first time Dean realized that his father wasn't there. And not just on the bleachers, but anywhere-- anywhere at all in Dean's life where it might have mattered.

Wherever a father should have been--loving or kind or cruel or spiteful--there was merely a hole. A blank space where John may have fit, and yet never did.

The fear was melting away.

Because there was nothing there.

Only stars.

Dean stumbled out into the light. He grabbed Jesse by the front of his hoodie, and kissed him like his life depended on it.

~~~~~

"I can't," Castiel said.

Dean rolled his eyes. "You can't what? You can't taste?"

The angel returned a shrug. This was something new he'd picked up from Dean, though he didn't seem to have it down just yet-- Castiel only shrugged his shoulders when he didn't feel like answering, not because he didn't know the answer.

"You're not even gonna try?" Dean asked, pushing the plate of french fries a little closer. "C'mon, how bad could it be?"

"I told you, I can't," Castiel replied, pushing the plate back towards Dean.

"Now that's just stupid," Dean said. "You can't eat at all? For real? Your vessel can eat, can't he?"

"Of course he can," Castiel said, all but rolling his eyes. "I cannot."

Dean gave into temptation and growled lightly, pulling the plate towards himself and chomping down on another french fry.

The diner was quiet. When he was traveling with Castiel, Dean preferred to dine at night-- in fact, he preferred to work on as much of a night schedule as possible. Castiel was, to put it lightly, a fucking weirdo, and corralling him into acting even remotely human was a full-time job.

But anything goes at three in the morning in a twenty-four-hour truck stop.

All that could be heard was the clattering of dishes in the kitchen-- far fewer than those filling the sink twelve hours previously. Occasionally, something would come flying down the highway. Funny how much faster they seemed to rush by when there was so much stillness in-between.

Dean sipped his coffee.

Castiel sat very still, his hands folded delicately on table in front of him. He was staring out at that highway, and yet his eyes seemed hardly focused at all.

Dean leaned forward, trying in vain to see what it was that had Castiel so captured. As he did, he saw the man's reflection ripple along the surface of the glass, light against the darkness of the night.

In passing, Castiel's reflection looked just as one might expect. He was, after all, a dirty little man in a trenchcoat, and that was reflected quite plainly. The closer you looked, however--the longer and deeper you stared into the forms, into his eyes--the more you would see.

Some people saw God or Jesus or whatever. Some people would catch a rare glimpse of the true angel, its power lessened to that of a sharp headache by the reflection. Most people, though, saw people.

No one in particular. Just shadows of people half-remembered, ghosts of the past.

As Dean looked at Castiel's reflection, he saw something familiar in the sharpness of his eyes. In the dark mess of his hair. In the tautness of his lower lids as he gazed out into nothingness.

A boy. His name nearly forgotten--James or Jonathan or something--but his face as crisp and clear as ever.

His first kiss.

Not his first-first kiss. Not really. But his first kiss that had felt the way they say it should.

"Whaddya mean?" Dean asked.

Castiel turned to look at Dean. He didn't ask for clarification-- not out loud, at least.

Dean set his jaw. "What do you mean you can't?" he said. "You can't… like, physically?"

Castiel frowned. "No. I'm quite capable of eating."

He paused.

A pause so long he may have, in fact, finished talking.

Dean cleared his throat. "But…?"

"But," Castiel said, almost stalling, "it is frowned upon."

Dean scoffed. "Frowned upon?"

"Yes," Castiel continued. "The garrison is very strict about how… involved we should be in human culture. Eating, listening to music, dancing--"

"You're not allowed to dance?!" Dean smacked his forehead, biting back a laugh. "Goddamn. Remind me to show you Footloose sometime. You'd get a kick outta that one."

"Mm."

Castiel did not seem near as enchanted by this as Dean. It occurred to Dean that, if listening to music was forbidden, watching movies was likely on the shit list, too.

Dean cleared his throat again. "I mean. That sounds…" But he couldn't think of the words, exactly. "Wh-who told you not to do that junk?"

Castiel cocked his head. "God, of course."

"Right. God." Dean nodded slowly. "Sounds like a stand-up guy."

"I wouldn't know," Castiel said. "I've never met him."

Dean squinted. "You've never met God." Not a question, exactly, though he intended it to be. "Isn't he, like… your dad?"

Castiel sighed. "I suppose you could say that."

"But you've never met him?"

"I've never met him."

"But you're living your life by his rules?"

"Of course," Castiel said. "He… if he found out-- if he knew that I was--"

"How could he?"

Castiel blinked.

"Cas." Dean pushed the plate of french fries back across the table. "God's not watching."

Castiel thought about that. For some reason, he turned to look out the window once more, gazing balefully at a streetlight in the parking lot. As if God himself would appear under it.

And yet, despite that strange terror that God was looking down at him, that he would somehow know, this was the first time that Cas truly realized that his father wasn't there. Not just under the streetlight, but anywhere-- anywhere at all on Earth that may have mattered.

Wherever God should have been--loving or kind or cruel or spiteful--there was merely a hole. A blank space which may have been holy, and yet never was.

The fear was melting away.

Because there was nothing there.

Perhaps Cas himself was the holiest thing on Earth.

Cas reached out and lifted a french fry from the thick ceramic plate. He made eating diner food look like a celebration of the Eucharist.


End file.
